


Bottles And Cans And Just Clap Your Hands

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Gen, Homophobia, Self-Acceptance, Slang, nineties music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn't think he could appreciate AC/DC more than he already did.  Turns out he was wrong.</p>
<p>Story and title reference "Where It's At" by Beck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottles And Cans And Just Clap Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [Hellatus Prompt Fic Tuesday](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/hellatus) on my Tumblr blog.

it’s mid-October, and they’re in Iowa. Dean’s maybe in second grade, Sammy’s back at the hotel with the maid and her kid, and their Dad is who knows where.

Dean keeps the back of his coat collar popped, but his hat is in his pocket. It’s hard to look tough in a striped stocking cap, and since he’s the youngest, kind of scrawny, and new to the school, he wants to look tough. Failing that, he just wants to be ignored. He stands off to the side of the group, backpack slung over his right shoulder, and watches for the bus. 

One of the older kids — fifth or sixth grade at least — looks his way. Dean pretends not to see, scuffing his foot against the gravel on the pavement. 

“Hey. Hey Winchester!”

“Yeah?” The less interested he can seem the better.

“You like Mounds or Almond Joy?”

Dean shrugs. “Almond Joy, I guess?”

The whole group collapses into a fit of giggles. 

He draws himself up to his full height and scowls, even though he kind of wants to cry instead. “Why’s that funny?”

“Dude. Almond Joy’s got nuts. You like nuts. You’re a total fag.”

“Okay, fine!” He says, fists clenched. “I like Mounds then.”

“Mounds of nuts, maybe,” the kid shoots back, and the other kids only laugh harder. “No girl with a nice pair of mounds is gonna want to look at you, faggot.”

His face is still burning when the bus pulls up, but he has learned two very useful things. One, other kids — especially older kids or kids in groups — are dicks. Two, that sometimes there’s no right answer, and it’s better to just shut up. 

It’s a lesson that sticks.

* * *

Fast forward to the summer of 1996. He’s seventeen, Sammy’s thirteen, and they’re up in Sioux Falls with Uncle Bobby for a couple of weeks because their dad is an asshole who doesn’t trust them to handle a damn hunt even though they both grew up knowing their way around guns and salt and devil’s traps.

And anyway, Bobby’s not really their uncle.

Still, he’s close enough, and he’s nice enough to drop them off at the pool for the afternoon. 

He likes the pool. Lots of wet naked skin, and he likes playing in the water. He burns like a motherfucker, though, so when he’s not swimming he puts on his ratty old AC/DC shirt and hangs out under an umbrella at the snack bar. 

The music is shitty radio pop, [something about turntables and microphones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPfmNxKLDG4), but the view is awesome.

Dean orders a refill on his suicide at the soda counter just in time to catch a spoken line in the song — What about those who swing both ways? AC/DCs? — and some teenagers at a nearby table look up at him and laugh.

He looks down at his shirt, then back up at a clique of smirking faces. 

Deep in his chest, that second grade self of his hurts. Fortunately for that kid, he’s riding around in a seventeen year old who knows how to win a fight.

Dean locks eyes with the biggest guy at the table. He licks his lips, then takes a nice long suck of soda through his straw as he walks over to join them. The guy looks away fast. Dean smirks.

“Something funny?”

“Your shirt, queer-ass,” one of the girls says to him.

“Yeah?” He looks down at his shirt, then up at her. He does that thing girls seem to like, where he goes all wide-eyed and sincere and attentive. “What’s funny about it?”

He might bite his lip a little to drive the point home.

“Um,” she stammers. 

“Is it that thing? From the song you guys like?” He rests his hand on the nearest shoulder. He looks down to discover that it’s a skinny blond guy, who looks torn as hell between bolting and punching. “I saw you singing along,” he says as he draws a little circle on the guy’s skin with his fingertip. “I think you’d like a little bit of AC/DC action, huh?”

Which is the trigger point. And goddamn is it awesome. The blond kid tries to take a shot, and all Dean has to do is push his off-balance ass to send him tumbling down He throws his suicide in the big guy’s face, which gives him just enough time to duck the third guy’s punch while the girls scatter.

Dean grabs the third guy, headbutts him, and shoves him toward the trash cans. He doesn’t even see the big guy until the punch connects. 

Dean stumbles, dazed, and touches his face where the pain starts to bloom. He can taste a little bit of blood, but he smiles. “Aw, what’s wrong, babe? You don’t like it when a guy gets you all wet and sticky?”

The dude charges. Dean feints left, then sweeps the guy’s leg, sending him down to the concrete hard. He’s about to call out a general challenge when three lifeguards, the manager, and an off-duty cop show up to drag him out. 

Five minutes later, Sam joins him out on the curb. He shoves Dean’s beach bag at him and sulks.

“What the hell, Dean?”

Dean shrugs. 

“Bobby’s gonna be pissed.”

“Yeah, probably.” He dabs at his lip with his thumb. “Worth it, though.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “What did they even do to you, anyway?”

Dean opens his mouth and realizes he doesn’t know what to say. He looks down at his shirt and frowns. Swallows. What can he say? That they made fun of him? Or that they made fun of him for something they couldn’t possibly have known about him because he’s still figuring it out and can’t even say it out loud?

“Nothing. They were being dicks. I just called them out on it is all.”

“Right.” Sam doesn’t look convinced, but at least he lets the subject drop. 

* * *

Sam’s right about one thing: Bobby gives him one hell of a talking-to in the Chevelle, then sends him upstairs to the room he’s sharing with Sam. Bobby doesn’t actually use the word “grounded” — normal kids get grounded, and Dean would only take it as a challenge — but the message that picking fights out in the open is still a dumbshit thing to do is both sent and received. 

Anyway, it’s peaceful upstairs.

He digs through the shoebox of tapes on the desk, finds the one he’s looking for, and pops it into his battered Walkman. He sprawls out on his bed and hits play. The gong of a huge bell fills his ears. The opening riff of “Hell’s Bells” joins it.

Dean smiles. They ain’t Zep, but he’s got a new and awesome reason to dig the Thunder from Down Under.


End file.
